


The One Where Oliver & Felicity are Detectives

by Herskirtsarentthatshort



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: :(, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict, Crime Scene, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, OTA, Tommy Merlyn is dead, Trope fest, a collection of one-shots, but really this is just meant to be some fun, olicity - Freeform, physical disability: cerebral palsy, there will be some kind of plot woven through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herskirtsarentthatshort/pseuds/Herskirtsarentthatshort
Summary: Detective Oliver Queen returns to the field 18 months after responding to a call that turned out to be an ambush by the notorious Triad, that killed his partner and childhood friend, Detective Tommy Merlyn.Special Agent Felicity Smoak has just transferred from Boston, where she assisted the FBI with an undercover assignment using her renowned tech skills. It left her wanting to do more, and with the feud between HIVE and the Triad turning more and more deadly, she accepts the 12-month undercover assignment at the Star City Police Department.A grandmother is found brutally murdered in her Star City apartment and her granddaughter is missing. Detectives Queen and Smoak are thrown together to solve the case. Captain John Diggle has his hands full managing personality clashes and closely-held secrets that threaten to unravel the delicate new partnership. Sparks fly as Oliver and Felicity must learn to trust each other and work together if they want to solve the old woman’s murder.A collection of one-shots of Oliver & Felicity as detectives. They'll get up to lots of adventures as they solve crimes together.





	1. The One with the File

The dream yanks Oliver from his sleep. They had become less often but by no means less haunting. He glances at his clock - 4.30am - an hour and a half before his alarm is set for. He looks to his left and the woman beside him is fast asleep, the sheet thrown across her haphazardly, revealing her smooth back and long, black glossy hair.  _ Helena. _ She is as feisty as she is beautiful, and their physical relationship is uncomplicated and completely what he needs... 

He scratches his beard, his thoughts turning to the day ahead. It’s his first day back in the field after 18 months out of it. The road back has been... _ difficult _ . Tommy’s funeral, trying to repair his relationship with Laurel (who still wanted nothing to do with him), his own recovery and desk duty. Impatience to be back out investigating and putting criminals behind bars gnaw at him. He isn’t one to be bound to a desk completing mundane paperwork. One advantage - which he reminds himself of - is the opportunity to investigate Tommy’s murder and who exactly is behind it. His progress has been frustratingly slow as he hits dead ends or discovers that he’s being kept out of the loop by his captain. Subterfuge has become his best friend so he can get his hands on any new piece of evidence. Not that there has been too much in the first place.

Oliver growls at the thought and throws off the bed sheets. He slips on a pair of boxers and a grey t-shirt. He walks quietly to the study adjoining his bedroom and takes a seat behind the desk which is placed along the adjacent wall. 

He turns on the desk lamp emitting a low glow over the blotter and carefully organised space. The desk is large and old-fashioned and features ornate carvings on the corners and legs. It is an inheritance piece from his parents - the only one he really wanted. 

His eyes drift to the top draw to his right and he turns the key in the hole, unlocking it. Everything he has on Tommy’s investigation is hidden in there and piled into multiple files. He takes the top manilla folder - labelled crime scene photographs - and flips it open. And instead of the taped off house being at the top, Tommy’s dead, bloody body greets him first. Oliver frowns, ignoring the acute pain in his chest at seeing his best friend. He keeps his files in meticulous order and Tommy is never the first photograph. 

He looks up and out towards where Helena is sleeping. His mind ticks over. No, she has never been alone in his room, and definitely not in his study. Oliver  _ always _ makes sure of that. He keeps the door closed - if not locked - most of the time to deflect any curious eyes. He thinks of Thea next. His sister and also housemate. She is inquisitive and worried about her big brother...but would she actually go through his files? 

Possibly, he concedes. But he still isn’t convinced it is her. 

He stands and paces across the room to the bookshelves where he keeps everything but books. Housed on the middle shelf in a simple wooden box is a brush and some black powder. Taking it back to the desk, he unscrews the lid, and fighting impatience he scatters the fine black powder across the photograph and the cover of the folder. Using the brush, he gently sweeps across the surfaces. He drops the bristled wood as more than just his fingerprints stare back at him. 

He grabs a piece of clear film out of the box and covers the print. He takes a steadying breath and wipes his hands on the flimsy cotton fabric of his shorts. He carefully lifts the film and with it comes the unidentified fingerprints. He has at least one full thumb and a partial index print. 

Heart racing and glaring at the prints, Oliver’s mind whirls. It definitely isn’t Thea - he knows her prints as well as his own...It is either Helena or someone else entirely...but who would know Oliver is leading his own investigation into Tommy’s death? 

Did they just happen across it or did they know what they came for? They seem to have been put back in a rush...had they been interrupted? Had they touched anything else? The questions pummel him and he begins to pace again. But there is one question that stands out before the rest:  _ when?  _ When did this happen? He hadn’t touched the files in about... a week. Sometime in the last week someone has broken into his study and desk to look at these photographs. They aren’t even the original ones. Oliver only had copies. They aren’t valuable to anyone but him. 

The plush rug cushions the sound of his feet marching across the room to turn the main lights on. His hawkish gaze sweeps around the room, looking for anything else out of place. His jaw flexes as he grits his teeth - there. Just by the foot of the desk. 

“Oliver?”

The sleepy voice of Helena stops him mid-stride and he fights to compose his face and relax his shoulders before turning to face her. 

“Hey. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “I woke cold and put this on,” pinching a thin piece of fabric now covering her chest, “and noticed the light on and you missing from bed.”

“I was just coming back to bed.” the lie comes out as smoothly as the smile on his lips. His steps, however, are not so effortless as he walks away from the shiny object and towards Helena. It takes everything in him to close the door and release the handle. 

“You look a little pale...and wound up.” she observes rather too shrewdly for Oliver’s liking. 

Oliver shakes his head and leads her back to bed. “I’m fine.” And forcing himself to be distracted by what he has just found, he fixes a rakish grin on his face and approaches Helena. “Here, let me warm you up,” he teases, lifting the shirt up over her head. She grins into his kiss as his strong embrace lowers them both to the bed. 

When he wakes an hour later sunlight floods his room and Helena is not next to him. He sits up in an instant panic. “Helena?” he calls, throwing off the sheets and storms towards the study. The door is closed as he left it. “Helena?” he says again into the air. 

Thea appears at his doorway. “She left about half an hour ago. Mentioned something about a meeting with her father.” She raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you late for work?”

A swift expletive breaks through, pushing the thoughts of the new mystery in his study to the back of his mind. Thea continues to talk at him as he opens his cupboard and finds a clean suit, shirt and tie to wear. 

“You’re meeting your new partner today, aren’t you?.”

He only grunts as he fumbles with shirt buttons. 

“No workout? No shower?” 

“No time. Help me, please?” he requests passing Thea the navy blue tie. 

“Everything okay, bro?”

Oliver purses his lips then exhales. “Frustrations with a case.”

“Tommy’s case?” 

He pins her with a look that has Thea stepping away from his half-finished tie. “Wh-what? What did I say?”

“What makes you think I’m investigating Tommy’s murder?”

Thea visibly relaxes and continues with Oliver’s tie. “Ollie, it’s a little known secret.”

“Excuse me. No one should know.”

“Fine.  _ Several _ people  _ suspect _ . And judging by your reaction they suspect correctly.”

“And who are these several people?”

“I suspected long before finding a file you left out on the dining table,” she replies, answering his question indirectly. 

Panic floods Oliver and he grips Thea’s shoulder hard. “When? When was this?” he demands.

“Ow. You’re hurting me.”

Oliver immediately releases her but looks at her expectedly. 

“I don’t know exactly when, Ollie, maybe like a week ago?”

“ _ When _ Thea? During the day, during the night?”

He can see his intensity is starting to worry her; her arms are crossed and she’s angling away from him. 

“During the day...I remember now. It was last Tuesday. I took my lunch break from the office and met Roy here.”

“And the file was already on the table when you got home?”

Thea stares at a wall without really seeing it. “I don’t know...I only noticed it when Roy and I were leaving.”

“Did Roy see the file as well?”

Thea shakes her head. “No. He was running late for work so he didn’t wait for me. Once I saw what the file was, I dropped it and kinda fled.” She’s got her arms wrapped around herself and tears in her eyes. 

“I’m really sorry you had to see that, Thea,” Oliver says softly, this time placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

Thea just shrugs and wipes her eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t say anything to you because, well, one I didn’t want to, and two, it was obviously something you wanted to be a secret. When I got home that night I noticed it was gone, so I figured you’d just forgotten about it earlier and put it away when you realised.”

His pulse is now thudding painfully in his neck and his thumb rubs against his forefinger in a familiar nervous tick. He clears his throat. “I need you to stay elsewhere, okay? Just for a few days.”

“What’s going on?” 

“Someone has been through my files in the study, and until I know how they got in, I don’t want you here alone,” he responds, reluctantly meeting her gaze. “I will drop you anywhere you need to go, you have five minutes to grab what you need and then we’re going.”

He walks away towards his study before Thea can respond. He swiftly and carefully gathers the files before putting them back in the drawer, and places the wooden box back on the shelf. Next, he scoops the shiny object into a plastic bag, and together with the lifted prints, puts them into a larger plastic bag ready to pay somebody a visit.

 

XXX

 

Oliver walks through the doors of the medical examiner’s building across town just after 9.30am, after dropping Thea off at Roy’s apartment situated on the border of the Glades. His shoes tap loudly on the polished marble as he crosses the wide foyer to the front desk. The high dome ceiling and extravagant chandelier laugh in the face of the morbidness of the place. Once a bank, Starling City bought it and for the last thirty years its housed the city’s forensic scientists.

He spots Josie behind the desk, head bowed over some papers. He doesn’t announce himself right away, but instead allows a small moment for a smile to play over his lips as she hums a song that’s wildly out of tune so Oliver doesn’t recognise it. 

He rests a forearm on the richly ornate wooden counter and is about to clear his throat when Josie’s head snaps up. 

“I’m a little disappointed, honey, you didn’t take longer to appreciate the view,” she muses, an ear-splitting grin on her face. 

Oliver chuckles and ducks his head. Aged in her fifties, Josie’s flirting was almost as outrageous and colourful as her clothes. She proudly made most of them, sourcing original fabrics from the 1960s and 1970s, or frequented thrift stores. Today it was a lime green and white polkda dot dress with a matching scarf.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks, smiling back at her. 

“Besides the fact I saw you come through that door, I’d know the sound of your steps anywhere, always in a rush...plus that cologne of yours is enough for any woman or man to turn their head in your direction. Anyway, what can I do for you and those twinkling blue eyes today?”

“Are they particularly twinkly today?” Oliver responds, playing along. He immensely enjoys their banter; it is often the brightest part of his day. 

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Let’s do some detecting here, shall we? You’re looking the way you are, suited and polished, not a hair out of place and it’s early in the morning. I’d say there’s other reasons those blue babies are extra twinkly today.” 

“How do you know that I’m not just really happy to see you?”

Josie’s laugh reverberated throughout the empty foyer. “Oh, honey, that’s a given. But I’d say it’s either a case or a woman...or both.” 

Oliver’s smile slips a little at the mention of Helena and it doesn’t escape Josie.  

“Oh, interesting. No extra warmth for these cold nights?”

“Well with a husband of your own, Josie, what is a man like me to do?” he covers with an enticement of his own. 

Josie’s chuckle is infectious as she points a finger at Oliver. “Don’t let my Cam hear you say that.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Now, down to business. Who are you here to see?” she asks, shuffling some papers together into a file. 

“Barry, if he’s in. I don’t have an appointment.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, mock chastising him with a, “tsk, tsk”, but she picks up the phone and dials Barry’s number anyway. “Bartholomew. Detective Queen is here to see you.”

Oliver’s amused at her brisk tone with Barry. Brash and immature, Josie has described him as in the past. He doesn’t completely disagree, but he’s good at his job and  _ is _ helping Oliver with his own investigation so he can’t be too picky. 

“You can go up,” Josie says, interrupting Oliver’s thoughts. 

Oliver taps the bench in thanks and makes his way up the marble steps. Josie’s voice follows him. “By the way, whatever you’re doing at that gym of yours is really workin’.” 

Oliver actually feels the heat in his cheeks and is glad that she can’t see it. “ _ Josie. _ ” 

“I’m only human, honey.”

 

XXX

 

By the time Oliver has finished with Barry and walks through the precinct doors, it's close to lunchtime. All traces of the great mood he was in after seeing Josie has dissipated. Someone has broken into his apartment, as it stands has left useless evidence, and has violated his privacy and put his sister in danger. He shoves his arms through the sleeves of his suit jacket, juggling his coffee and satchel and straightens his tie. He dumps the Italian leather black satchel on his desk and walks briskly to the Captain's office. He knocks sharply twice and enters without waiting for a response. 

The first thing he sees is the back of a woman sitting across from the Captain. He's caught her mid-sentence and notices her stiffen in her seat. He turns his focus to the Captain. “Sorry I'm late, Diggle.”

“I figure we'd have a problem if you ever turn up on time, Queen.” Diggle replies easily, clasping his hands together on the desk. 

The blonde-haired woman turns and Oliver's gaze settles firmly on her, drawing her into his orbit. She's young. Almost too young he thinks. She's also extremely pretty. Big blue eyes and a blush that's slowly creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. He's studying her too intently, he realises. He walks towards her with confident strides and plasters his public-ready smile on his face. “Hi. I'm Oliver Queen.”

She stays seated but takes his outstretched hand. Her skin is soft but the grip is strong. “Yes, I know who you are. I'm Detective Felicity Smoak.” He detects a small wobble in her voice. Nervous? Intimidated?

“So...” he begins, pulling out the chair next to her and takes a seat. “You're my new partner.” 

Her eyes narrow appraising him. Is she regretting taking the position already?

“Seems that way. Captain Diggle has been filling me in.”

He drags his gaze away from her and looks at Diggle. “Does she ever smile or…”

An alarm sounds cutting off Oliver’s remark. He sees his new... _ whatever _ ...reach into her bag and pull out her phone. Her brow is furrowed deep, lips pushed forward into an  _ O. _

“Something wrong?” Diggle asks. 

“Yes,” comes her reply. “It seems that someone has bugged your office, Captain, and they’re attempting to listen into this conversation.”

Both Oliver and Diggle are looking at her, eyebrows raised high. 

Off their look, she explains. “I have a program on my phone that alerts me of any listening devices. A prerequisite in my job at the Bureau...and it seems, here…” she trails off, tapping away on her phone until the beeping stops. 

“You’re a Fed?” Oliver’s incredulous voice cuts through the heavy air. 

“I am,” she answers matter of factly, barely sparing him a glance before turning to speak to Diggle. “Captain, I’ve blocked their bug for the moment, they will be getting an error message, but we should really try to find where the devices have been hidden.”

“Why would anyone want to bug my office?” 

The Fed shrugs. “Apparently we are an interesting group of people.”

“Is there any way to track how long they have been listening to my conversations?”

“Yes, but I’ll need my computer for that. I’ll need to trace the signal -”

“How do we know you didn’t plant the bug in here?” Oliver asks, interrupting her. “It’s a little convenient that it happens to go off moments after you arrive.”

She puts her phone in the lap and leans back in her chair, folds her arms and appraises him. Actually looks him up and down. Then she sighs and sits up. “Firstly, if you were here on time, Detective Queen, you would have seen that I’ve been here since about nine o’clock this morning. Which leads me onto the second point, how do we know you didn’t plant the bug? My alarms went off as soon as you entered this room.  _ Late _ .” 

The only sound in the room is the clock ticking on Diggle’s desk, before Oliver hears his soft chuckle. 

“Alright, alright kids.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Oliver stands with enough force for the chair to scrape across the lino floor. “She’s just accused me of spying on my own Captain!”

“After you accused me first!” Felicity retorts, jumping up also. 

“You’re the  _ fed _ ! A stranger, a nobody. For all we know you’ve planted the bug here,” he repeats. 

“What purpose would that serve! Why would I bring attention to the alarms on my phone if I wanted to record a conversation, which by the way,  _ I am a part of already by being in this room. _ ” 

He’s heaving, breaths hissing through his clenched teeth. “Why the hell do we need a fed here anyway, Diggle?” he spits. 

“Keep your voice down.” The fed is talking again and he is hating it. Hating  _ her. _

“It’s a federal case now, Queen,” Diggle replies, calm personified. 

“Since when?” Oliver demands.

“Since bloodshed has spilled interstate and we are obviously over our heads. Headlines all over the country. Special Agent Smoak has been assigned by the FBI. She has the field experience to sell the cover of being a detective, and the tech skills we need.”

“I am not working with her, Diggle. We do  _ not _ need her help, the feds help.” 

“That’s too bad, Detective Queen, because the evidence all points to the fact that you do need our help, my help specifically. You’ve got quite the reputation of being smart, I would hate for that to be proven wrong.” 

_ Who the hell is this woman?  _

“Are you alright, Oliver?” Diggle’s voice cuts through his not-at-all pleasant thoughts about the pint sized blonde-haired woman standing across from him. He feels like his whole body is on fire; he has no control of the situation, and after the morning he’s had, being blindsided like this has left him seething.

He clenches his hands and then releases them once, twice, three times. He exhales sharply. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll be at my desk.” He looks at the fed and hates the pensive look staring back him. “ _ Special Agent  _ Smoak.”

“If you reveal my cover Detective Queen to that squad room out there, you destroy this case,” she warns. 

“And what case is that exactly,  _ Special Agent _ ?” he all but sneers at her. 

“Not only the mole you apparently have working with you, but the Triad and HIVE case as a whole.”

“I’m still not seeing the problem.”  _ Liar. _

“You will also destroy any progress you’ve made in your own investigation into Tommy’s death.” 

Silence. 

Oliver glares so hard at her that it has Diggle coming out from behind his desk and standing between them. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks her. “What is she talking about?” he looks to Oliver. 

“Nothing,” he grinds out. To Felicity, “you, me, outside right now.”

“Not until you give me your word, Detective, that my cover will not be blown.”

More silence.

“Oliver, if you want to keep your job, you’ll give Special Agent Smoak your word,” Diggle chimes in. 

Oliver fixes his glare on Diggle, but Diggles knows better than to be intimidated by it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Oliver. You came in here and like a red flag to a bull.”

“Fine.” The word is spat out with venom, hatred clinging to the single syllable.

 

XXX

 

Felicity is impressed that she could inspire so much emotion. She isn’t at the point of openly hating him, like he obviously is, but she isn’t exactly impressed with his lack of professionalism. She raises an eyebrow at Captain Diggle as she walks by him and follows Oliver out onto the street. 

The cold cuts at her and she curls her arms around her body, mentally cursing herself for leaving her coat back inside.

She has just rounded the corner when her back is up against the brick wall and Oliver is in her face. 

“Listen - “

“Hey,” her voice dangerously low. She pushes him away from her and stands up straight. “ _ Watch yourself.” _

“You Feds are all the same -”

“Let’s just get something straight before you go on your tangent. We are going to be partners whether you like it or not, whether you believe you need one or not. Our priority in there? We just discovered that someone is listening to your conversations and for how long, who knows. Does it relate to our case? Seems highly likely. So, Detective Queen, you are left with one option. Quit being a dick and we work together, or I will have you kicked off this case so fast you won’t notice how well your ass fits into that chair at your desk. Which, may I add, already has a nice indent. Been enjoying your  _ administrative leave _ , have you?”

“ _ Excuse me _ , who the hell do you think are you? You have just proven the cliche that Feds come in here and think they can dictate the way things will go. Well, newsflash sweetheart, that’s not the way it works around here -”

“ _ I am nobody’s sweetheart _ -”

“- so let’s get one thing  _ straight _ ,” he continues, talking over her. “We may be working on the same case, but we are not partners, never will be partners.”

But Felicity is unperturbed, as the wind picks up, biting at her bare arms. “Do you work well by yourself? Is that why your investigation into Tommy’s death is going so well?”

Oliver inhales sharply and takes a step back from her. Hatred and just a little something else - guilt, pain? - were ablaze in his blue eyes. “You cross a line,  _ Detective _ .”

Felicity says nothing and just watches him, arms folded, stepping out of the way of people as they jostle pass. 

She can hear him grinding his teeth, his jaw flinching with everything he has. “How do you know?”

“It’s my job to know, detective. If I am going to be  _ partners  _ with someone I need to know who I’m working with and what their reasons are. It seems that guilt is yours.”

“Line, Smoak,” he spits. “I don’t give a shit who you are.”

Felicity just shrugs. “I am going to go inside now and get started. Will you be joining me?”

She doesn’t wait for him to respond and she escapes the frigid air. 

 


	2. The One with Veronica Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver & Felicity experience their first homicide as partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not anticipate this long a wait for this next chapter! I'm constantly writing in my head, but sitting in front of the computer is another thing entirely...apparently! 
> 
> This chapter is a bit gruesome because of the crime scene, but I hope you can find other parts to enjoy!
> 
> Also please note the added tags.

_ 3 weeks later and 3 weeks before Christmas  _

 

Her phone rings incessantly and Felicity complains loudly when she’s driven from sleep. Her complaints double when she sees who’s calling her .

 

Oliver ‘jerkward’ Queen is flashing on screen.

 

“It’s Sunday morning,” she bites out when she answers. 

 

“We have a body,” the jerkward replies in-kind. 

 

Felicity groans. “Text me the address,” she replies, only slightly less miffed. She was having a glorious dream about being in Aruba.

 

“Bring coffee,” and he clicks off. 

 

Felicity stares at her phone. “Bring coffee? BRING COFFEE? Oh, I’ll bring coffee. JERKWARD.”

 

She pulls up to the address that Oliver sent her roughly 30 mins later. it’s a smart red brick apartment building about five stories tall in an affluent part of the city. Grabbing her coffee, she gathers herself and her jacket and crosses the road.

 

She takes a sip of the hot liquid and waves at the officer manning the entrance as she ducks under the yellow police tape. “Detective Smoak,” she says, flashing her badge. “Were the first officer on the scene?”

 

“Yes, Detective. Me and my partner. No-one bar CSU has been in there since we’ve secured it.”

 

“And who made the call?”

 

He takes a second to consult his notebook. “Er, a Miss Bertinelli. She lives in the apartment next door.” 

 

“Helena Bertinelli?” Surprise colours Felicity’s voice. 

 

“Yes, Detective. She said she woke early to go to the gym,” he reads from his notes, “and found the victim’s door ajar. She, uh, noticed blood just inside the door and thought she should call us right away.” 

 

Felicity’s mind whirls at the information; she’s almost certain the Bertinelli family are a major crime family in the city, although, annoyingly, no one has enough evidence of that. 

 

“And what time did the call come in?”

 

Again with the notebook. “Uh, 6.07am, Detective.”

 

“OK. Thanks.” 

 

Felicity’s long, determined strides take her inside into the impressively-decorated lobby where a well-dressed doorman is standing behind a tall oak desk. He makes a start to ask for her name, but she beats him to it and shows him her badge. He responds with a quiet sigh and a sad nod of his head.

 

Felicity’s footsteps echo as she makes her way over to him. “Detective Smoak with the SCPD,” she smiles at him. “How are you...John Buttle?” she takes a peek at his name badge pinned neatly to his navy blue suit. 

 

His grey-tinged mustache quivers slightly. “I’ve been better, Detective. I’ve been a doorman for 25 years and never had this happen.”

 

“Do you know who was murdered, Mr Buttle?”

 

“I don’t like to spread rumours, Detective. But I have heard from a couple of tenants that it was Mrs Veronica Brown.”

 

“And did you know her well?” 

 

“As well as everyone else living here,” deep voice rumbling in his chest. 

 

“Right. And what time did you start your shift? You have shifts, right? This is a 24-hour serviced building?”

 

“Correct. We do 12-hour shifts. I started mine at 8pm last night.”

 

Felicity flicks her wrist and checks her watch. 7.30am. “Any unusual activity during the night?” 

 

Mr Buttle shakes his head. “Not that I heard or saw, Detective. There were a few late-night revellers coming in around 3am, but that’s the usual Saturday night.”

 

“This building is quite impressive and it’s in an affluent neighbourhood...what sort of people live here?”

 

“Well Mrs Brown was a retiree. But most of them are young professionals.” 

 

“No families?”

 

“Not currently, Detective.”

 

Felicity questions Mr Buttle for another five minutes or so, before thanking him for his time. She ascends the stairs (for such a smart, well maintained building the no lift thing must be a bummer) and comes upon The Jerkward on the fourth level, sitting on the floor next to the door of number seven. 

 

Legs bent at his knees, arms clad in a pale blue button down, fingers drumming impatiently on his thighs. Well defined, well dressed thighs. 

 

She clears her throat because he obviously hasn’t heard her coming up the stairs. His head snaps up and she’s taken aback at his messy beard, messy hair and the large bags under his eyes. His eyes take a second to focus on her, but when they do, the scowl she’s come to know all too well appears on his face. 

 

Then he spots her coffee. And he doubles down on the scowl.

 

“You brought coffee.” 

 

“Well, you told me to.” 

 

“Only for yourself?” 

 

They’re at some sort of stand-off; neither of them move from their spot on the well-polished floorboards.

 

“Well you didn’t specify you wanted coffee. Besides, you didn’t use your manners.”

 

Jerkward. 

 

“Anyway, you said there’s a body?” Felicity breaks the stand-off and takes a couple of steps towards him and the open door of unit eight.

 

Oliver eyes her coffee one last time before answering her. “Yes. CSU are securing the scene at the moment. I haven’t been in yet.”

 

“I spoke to the doorman downstairs on my way up. He said the tenants are talking about the victim being a Mrs Veronica Brown.” 

 

At that exact moment a man appears at the door. Well, Felicity thinks he’s a man? He looks kinda young. Tall. Like a bean pole. Messy brown hair. Cute. Very cute.

 

Oliver stands up.

“You guys are right to come on through,” the boy-man says. His eyes land on Felicity and he smiles. “Don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Barry. Barry Allen. CSU.“

 

Felicity takes his outstretched hand. “Felicity Smoak. Detective. Partners with this -“ she tosses her head in Oliver’s direction, “detective.”

 

“Oh yeah. Oliver has mentioned you.” He looks down right uncomfortable admitting it.

 

Felicity laughs and winks at him. “Nothing good I’m sure. Anyway, you said we’re good to go in?”

 

“Yeah, but before you do, you’ll both need to wear these.” He’s holding up blue booties.

 

Felicity takes them and hands a pair to Oliver without looking at him. He snatches them from her.

 

“Gives us a minute, Allen,” he grits out. 

 

Barry sighs and sends Felicity an apologetic look. 

 

Felicity turns to face Oliver. “Yes? What is it now?” 

 

His arm bars her entrance through the doorway. “I just wanted to make sure we’re clear here. I’m the boss. I’m taking the lead on this one.”

 

“We’re partners, detective. And besides, looks like I’m closer to the door anyway.”

 

He ignores the jab but his eyes darken. “We’re not partners. And I’m the lead.”

She sips at her coffee; grimacing at the last bitter dregs. “I bet you always are, right?”

 

“Right.” 

 

“No matter what? No matter the cost?” 

 

The air is heavy for a beat and then the implication hits Oliver squarely in between the eyes.

 

He takes one dangerous step towards Felicity, body taut and voice so low it has her shrinking back. “What did you say?”

 

“Nothing but the truth,” she responds, keeping her gaze level with his. 

 

“You know nothing about me,” he says slowly, each word punctuated. 

 

“I know enough. I read Tommy’s file.” 

 

“So you blame me,” completely unsurprised. 

 

“I don’t blame you, Oliver. You do enough of that yourself.” 

 

She places the now-empty coffee cup on the floor, then steps under his arm, puts her booties on and walks into the apartment. She hears him take a deep breath and then follow in behind her.

 

The first thing she notices is the smashed vase, half of it is still on the entrance table, the other on the floor. Then she spies blood on the floor. She’s surprised that Miss Bertinelli saw it at all. It’s mostly hidden under glass and looks dried, somewhat camouflaged by the floorboards.

 

She makes a mental note to question this Miss Bertinelli. 

 

Felicity comes around the corner and greeting her is a well lit apartment, with tall ceilings and large windows along the southern side. It affords an extraordinary view of the park below and of the city skyline.

 

There are two crime scene photographers standing by the windows taking photos of the space beyond them, which is the space Felicity moves into next.

 

To the left she spies a baby grand piano in the corner and ...the body of someone who has been brutalised. Her footfalls slow to a stop and she can’t stop the horrified look crossing her face.

 

Oliver stops beside her, looking grim. “Never seen a dead body before, Smoak?”

 

No, she definitely had not. Not in person, anyway. Crime scene photos, yes. 

 

“Do you need a minute?” He asks her, but is looking at the body. 

 

Members of the CSU are starting to notice so she takes a breath and shakes her head.

 

Oliver walks away from Felicity and towards the body, shoulders sagging. Felicity follows slowly, making a point of looking around the room.

 

Two couches both stained with blood splatter.

 

A broken clock, which reminds her of Cogsworth from  _ Beauty and the Beast _ , by the coffee table.

 

The coffee table on its side and what was on the table laying spread out on the Persian rug, which surprisingly, sits beneath it all, undisturbed.

 

She makes her way over to the rug and with delicate fingers she carefully lifts the heavy - and expensive looking - material up off the floor a few inches. She finds nothing suspicious like scuff marks, or blood, but makes a note in her notebook to come back to that later.

 

Barry Allen hovers nearby, giving Oliver an overview of the person’s injuries; his voice is quiet and respectful but Felicity is close enough now that she hears. She really wish she can’t, she needs a stronger stomach.

 

A woman, aged around 70, dress dyed red with her own blood and torn, lies beside the piano. She doesn’t need to look at Oliver’s or Barry’s faces to know that this must be one of the most horrific crime scenes they’ve seen.

 

“Blunt force trauma you see here,” Barry says, pointing to a large and deep wound on her forehead. “The same wound on her back,” he adds gently turning the head.

 

“Looks like the shape of an axe or something similar,” Oliver observes. 

 

Barry nods. “Severe internal injuries to all her major organs. And several defensive wounds to her arms and hands.”

 

Felicity honestly wants to cry as she listens. But all she does is force herself to crouch down next to Oliver and pretend to be a seasoned detective.

 

“What do you suppose the cause of death is?” She asks looking up at Barry.

 

“There are ligature marks here,” pointing to her neck with a gloved finger. “So I’d -“

 

“So she was tortured and then strangled,” Felicity surmises, swallowing down the bile rising rapidly in her throat.

 

Oliver turns his head to look at her but she can’t look back. 

 

She straightens. “Can you give a time of death?” She asks Barry. 

 

“Based on liver temp and rigor mortis, I’d say five to six hours ago.” 

 

“So between 1.30-2.30am?” This time she does look at Oliver, who has now stood and not at all looking like himself. Indeed, he looks like he has the whole world on his shoulders. “Why didn’t anyone call until, what, almost two hours ago? This place is a mess, this woman would’ve been fighting for her life, and no-one heard a thing?” 

 

“Buildings like these would have a certain amount of soundproofing,” Oliver tells Felicity and Barry.

 

“Of course they do,” Felicity scoffs sarcastically. “But are you telling me no-one would’ve heard Mrs Brown screaming?”

 

Oliver shifts his feet and scrubs his hands over his face. “Look around, Smoak. This building, this neighbourhood. People keep to themselves.”

 

“There aren’t many apartments in this building. I’m surprised there isn’t a stronger sense of community.”

 

Oliver says no more and leaves the room. 

 

“Is he OK?” Barry asks, eyes following Oliver. 

 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” replies Felicity. 

 

“You’re partners…”

 

“Only in name, and not even then, according to Oliver.”

 

“Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

 

They walk down another short hallway and into an equally bright open plan kitchen. There’s a large island situated in the middle with cream coloured stone. If Felicity were a cook, that island would be heaven. The cabinets are a mint green with black handles and there are open shelves on either side of the sink displaying beautiful plate and glassware. Cookbooks litter the bench next to the stove and above it in another open shelf.

 

Oliver isn’t here, but Felicity joins Barry at one of the breakfast stools. He’s holding Veronica Brown’s licence in his hand. On the island is her handbag.

 

“May I?” She asks pointing to the bag.

 

“Sure. Take these,” Barry gives her a spare pair of gloves.

 

Felicity puts them on and with the utmost care begins to look through Veronica Brown’s bag.

 

She finds a phone and sees two missed calls from a Cassie Brown. Felicity takes out her notebook and immediately writes down the name.

 

She continues to search, and eventually displayed on the island are two lipsticks, perfume, two sets of keys, a shopping list, a book ( _ Persuasion _ by Jane Austen), a movie ticket stub ( _ Moana _ ), and a pair of black stockings.

 

Oliver appears from another room and joins them at the island. He doesn’t comment but asks for photos to be taken of each item individually and then a group one of them on the island. A photographer steps in and does what Oliver asked.

 

They spend the next hour searching the rest of the apartment. Two well-appointed and large bedrooms, both with ensuites, the laundry and the study. Working around them are CSU, who are collecting any trace evidence from the carpeted bedrooms, from the bedding; lifting prints; packaging the evidence into plastic bags and glass tubes.

 

Her and Oliver work in silence, until he finds her in the study, examining the only window for any clues.

 

“Let’s split interviewing the neighbours,” he says to her. “I’ll start up and work my way down. You start on the first floor.”

 

“The first responding officer said that a Miss Bertinelli next door reported the crime. Would be good to start with her.”

 

Oliver clenches his jaw. “Yep.”

 

She walks down the stairs trying hard not to think about Veronica’s beautiful blue slashed dress or her mutilated body. She does notice, however, that Mr Buttle is no longer at his post.

 

She knocks on apartment one and waits. There’s no answer so she tries again. No answer.

 

She moves to apartment two and knocks. “Hello? Detectives with the SCPD, I just have a few quest -“

 

The door opens and a young-ish man appears. He’s dressed plainly in jeans and a grey t-shirt. But he’s sporting a friendly enough smile.

 

“Hi, my name is Detective Felicity Smoak. I’m with the SCPD.”

 

“Adam Young,” the man replies. “Is this about the woman upstairs?”

 

“You know about that, huh?”

 

He shrugs, his brown eyes not quite meeting Felicity’s blue ones. “Heard the commotion from you folks this morning.”

 

“Can I come in and ask you a few questions?”

 

He opens the door wide to let Felicity through. “I don’t live here though. I’m a support worker. I’ll let Jess - who does live here - know we’ve got company.”

 

Felicity follows him through the hallway and into a living room not too dissimilar to Veronica Brown’s: large and light. There’s less furniture and no piano, but the photography hanging on all the available wall space more than makes up for that.

 

Rainforests, deserts, beaches, ruined cities, portraits have turned the lounge room into a gallery. It’s some of the best photography she’s ever seen.

 

Her attention is drawn away by the appearance of Mr Young and a young woman of about 25 in a wheelchair.

 

“Hi,” Felicity smiles at her. “My name is Felicity. I’m with the SCPD.”

 

“I’m Jess. Adam said you have a few questions?” she responds through her communication device that looks like a flat screen computer..

 

“I do,” Felicity confirms and takes a seat opposite Jess at Mr Young’s gesture. She pulls out her notebook and pen. “What’s your full name Jess?”

 

The reply comes seconds later. “Jess Reynolds.” 

 

“Have you lived here long?” 

 

“About two years. Before here I lived in California.” 

 

“Nice. I come from Boston myself.” 

 

Miss Reynolds smiles and nods towards Adam Young. 

 

“So do I,” he confirms. 

 

“And why the move to Starling City?” She asks both of them. 

 

While Miss Reynolds writes a reply, Adam speaks. “My mom got ill so I came to be with her.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Felicity tells him. 

 

He nods and gives her a small smile. 

 

Miss Reynolds catches Felicity’s eye and the computer speaks on her behalf. “I was born here. I used to be a photographer and travelled all over the world. But my medical needs grew complicated, and my dad wanted me close.”

 

“Are these your photos?” Felicity inquires with awe clearly in her voice.

 

She nods and looks to Mr Young to explain. 

 

“Jess still travels around the state but she hasn’t travelled internationally for about five years.”

 

“And how long have you known Jess?” 

 

Jess’s right arm spasms out to the side without warning or direction and Adam has to jump out of the way.

 

“I’ve worked for her for about...a year?” He looks to Jess to confirm, who nods. She’s busy typing something.

 

Felicity and Adam wait for her. 

 

“You aren’t shocked by my spasm.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

 

Felicity shakes her head. “I have a couple of friends that have cerebral palsy.”

 

“How do you know them?” asks Jess.

 

“I went to school with them.” 

 

“Are they as cool as me?” Jess laughs. 

 

“Yeah they pretty much are,” Felicity laughs as well. “But nowhere near as talented with a camera. Tim works in finance and Bec is a book editor.”

 

“Do you get to see them often?” 

 

“Not since I moved out here about two months ago. ” 

 

“Can I get you something to drink, Detective?” Adam asks. “Water, coffee?” 

 

“A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.” 

 

He leaves the two ladies which gives Felicity the opportunity to ask Jess about Veronica Brown.

 

“Jess, do you know a Mrs Veronica Brown that lives up on the fourth floor?” 

 

She tears up immediately, and nods. 

 

“I’m sorry to tell you that she was murdered last night. Does she live alone?” 

 

Jess shakes her head and tries to wipe the tears but her right arm doesn’t want to cooperate. Adam grabs a tissue from the coffee table when he comes back in the room and does it for her.

 

She finds her voice again. “No, her granddaughter lived with her. Veronica had early onset dementia and Tess cared for her.”

 

“When she wasn’t travelling for work,” Adam adds. 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“She’s one of those bloggers that get paid to travel and write about places and the like,” Jess explains.

 

“And who is Cassie?” Felicity asks. 

 

“Her other granddaughter, but I’ve only seen her ...maybe a handful of times? I remember Veronica telling me once that Cassie was an up and coming actress in LA.”

 

“Did you speak to Veronica often? Did she ever say anything to give you an indication that she might be in trouble?”

 

Jess cries again. “She never said anything. She was honestly the nicest lady. She would visit me once a week for tea and she’d always offer to pick things up for me at the store if I couldn’t get there myself.”

 

She’s inconsolable now and Adam tries to calm her down. 

 

Felicity takes a large gulp of water before asking her next question. “So, where were you between 1.30 and 2.30 this morning?” 

 

“Sleeping,” Jess responds. “Here. I didn’t hear anything.”

 

“And neither did I,” Adam chimes in. 

 

“Oh, so you live here?” Felicity sits up a little straighter. The wing-back armchair was mighty comfortable.

 

“Only on weekends,” he clarifies. “Jess has another care-giver during the week.”

 

“Ok. So do either of you know why someone would go after Mrs Brown?” 

 

They both shake their heads and the room descends into silence. Jess openly grieving for her friend, and Adam concerned for his employer.

 

“Thank you so much for your time and I am so sorry for your loss.” She places her card on Jess’s armrest. “If you think of anything else please call.”

 

She pockets her notebook into her SCPD windbreaker and joins Oliver who she sees is waiting in the lobby. His eyes follow her across the room, but he’s not looking at her face. He’s  staring at her chest.

 

She crosses her arms. “You right?” 

 

“Hm? Oh. I was just thinking. You have one after all.” 

 

“A chest?” 

 

“No. A heart.” 

 

She scoffs. “I’m surprised you know what one looks like.” And pokes his chest with her pen.

 

The pen snaps. 

 

Felicity studies it. “Huh. Would you look at that. Just as I suspected, hard, just like the rest of you.”

 

She grimaces and scratches her head with the snapped pen. “Believe it or not, that was not meant to be a compliment.”

 

A very rare Oliver Queen smile cracks through his miserable looking face. “I have a reputation of looking like a GQ model, did you know that?” 

 

Felicity turns away from him and towards the front door. “Yeah. I just threw up in my mouth.”

 

Nevertheless, the air is lighter between them as they walk to their respective cars. Without realising it, Felicity had parked right behind Oliver. 

 

“I didn’t realise you drove a mini-cooper,” he remarks. 

 

“She’s my pride and joy. A graduation gift from my father.”

 

He just nods, a solemn look passing over his face once again, closing him off. 

 

Felicity’s jiggles the keys in her hand. “See you back at the precinct?”

 

“Hmm. Yep. Sure. See you there.” 

 

She hesitates at the driver’s door, looking across at Oliver who’s looking at the apartment building again. 

 

“Hey, Oliver?”

 

He spins, hands in his pockets. 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

The question takes him by surprise and he shifts his feet. “I...yes, of course.” 

 

“Are you sure? Because you look -”

 

“Felicity,” his sharp tone cuts in. “Just worry about yourself.” 

 

And he’s in his car and driving away before Felicity can digest what’s just happened. 

 


End file.
